The fat man finished his beer and made his way back out into the heat.
Edgar looked over at Braddock. “You ever hear of Mitty and Buddy?” he asked.
“No. And are you really getting ready to close?”
“Naw, I just said that to get rid of that guy. If he’d stayed around, he would have thought Mitty was nuts. I like Mitty. I don’t wanna see that. And Mitty was bound to start bragging again about that dog. You can’t shut him up for long.”
“That’s for sure,” Braddock said. “But I don’t know why he’d brag about the dog.”
“Not that dog,” Edgar said, “Buddy. Mitty and Buddy used to be one of the hottest lounge and resort acts in the country. But I’ll tell you something: that dog there, Java, looks a lot like the photos I seen of Buddy.”
“Come off it,” Braddock said with a laugh. “You mean this Buddy was a talking dog?”
“I mean it,” Edgar said, stone faced. “He even talked to some scientists the government sent when they heard about him.”
“Funny I never read about that,” Braddock said.
“Well, it’s kinda like UFOs.”
“How so?”
“The scientists didn’t believe it even after they heard it. ’Cause they didn’t want to believe it.”
“But I’ve heard of UFOs.”
“That’s ’cause there are more of them than talking dogs.”
“So why’s Mitty telling me all about this stuff?” Braddock asked.
“Because he’s dying.”
Braddock sat back. “What?”
“He’s got something bad wrong with him, some kinda rare blood disease nobody can do anything about. I think he wants to sell you the dog.”
“Buddy?”
“Naw! Buddy’s been dead more’n forty years. Java. Mitty knows a smart young guy can work up an act and make a fortune with Java. He likes you, thinks of you as a son. He told me that.”
“I only met him a few months ago.”
“He says that right away you reminded him of himself when he was young, full of ten kinds of malarky and burning to make some kinda smash in the business.”
“Ten kinds of malarky?”
“I’m only repeating what-”
Edgar broke off what he was saying as Mitty emerged unsteadily from the men’s room and returned to the table. There were wet spots on the front of his pants and his fly was slightly more than half zipped up, just far enough that Braddock decided not to bring it to his attention and embarrass him. As Mitty sat down, he drew from an inside pocket a folded, aged envelope.
“Look at these,” he said, lovingly spreading the ancient contents of the envelope on the table so Braddock could examine them.
There were old playbills, press clippings, and grainy black-and-white photographs. Several of the photos were of posters extolling the virtues of Mitty and Buddy. On one of the posters they were headliners at some Catskills resort Braddock had never heard of. The only photo of Buddy was a grainy black-and-white of the dog with his leash wrapped around a post, much as Java’s leash was wrapped around the table leg, with the same distinctive kind of slip knot. Buddy and Java did look a lot alike.
“You think I wasn’t big in show business at one time?” Mitty asked. His complexion was sallow. He dug in a pocket and deftly swallowed a pill with a swig of Scotch, waiting for Braddock to answer.
“I believe that,” Braddock said.
“But you don’t believe about Buddy.”
“I didn’t say that… ”
“And you don’t believe Java here is trained to speak.”
“Listen,” Braddock said, feeling sorry for Mitty, “I’ve gotta be honest. I’m like all the rest of them out there. I don’t believe dogs can talk.”
“Not dogs!” Mitty said desperately. “Certain dogs. Maybe one in a hundred thousand. If they’re trained.”
“And have been operated on,” Braddock reminded him.
“Only some of them. Now and then there’s one that has the proper palate formation and doesn’t require the operation. And to tell you the truth I never even tried the operation. I love dogs, can’t cut on ’em like I was a trained surgeon. After Buddy died I gave up show business. Then, when Dr. Darius’s widow died and the family let me look through his papers, I was overjoyed to learn there were rare dogs that didn’t need the operation in order to learn a facsimile of human speech.”
“Dogs like Java?”
“Like Java,” Mitty said. “It took me years to find him.”
“Maybe Buddy and Java just happen to be similar,” Braddock said.
“Certain breeds… ” Mitty said mystically.
Braddock looked again at the yellowed newspaper clippings and photographs on the table. “I’ve got to admit, you were impressive, you and Buddy.”
“It could be Braddock and Java,” Mitty said. “This is a way for you to beat this business, Jim! This is opportunity knocking, if only you’ll believe it’s out there!”
“Opportunity usually has a price,” Braddock said, remembering this was L.A.
“It does this time, too,” Mitty told him. “I’d never lie to you. Java is valuable and he’s all I have to sell. I’ve gotta get six thousand dollars for him.”
“Six thousand? I don’t have that kind of-”
“Yes, you do! I heard you say you sold some foreign rights to a screenplay you wrote four years ago, when you were only nineteen.”
“That’s the only thing I ever sold,” Braddock said. “And if it weren’t for that money I’d have to get a j-j-”
“Job,” Mitty said.
“I have difficulty even saying the word,” Braddock told him, feeling a chill.
“So did I when I was your age. That’s because our kind knows our calling, our business. Don’t you understand? I’m offering you the way in! Chaplin with his tramp outfit and cane! Laurel with Hardy! The three tenors! Braddock and Java!”
“Why six thousand dollars?” Braddock asked.
“It’s the cost of a fu-It’s the exact price of something I need.”
“But I’ve never even heard Java talk.”
“But he can! I swear to it!”
“So show me. Make him perform.”
“You can’t make a shy dog do something like talk if he doesn’t want to.”
“Make him want to, if you want to make me want to buy him.”
Mitty glanced at Edgar, who looked away and began polishing glasses with a gray towel.
Mitty turned his gaze on Java, who also looked away.
“I do not wish to appear the fool,” Mitty said.
“That isn’t my intention,” Braddock said honestly.
Mitty sighed, then tugged on Java’s leash and signaled with his hand for the dog to sit. Java settled back on his haunches, staring expectantly at Mitty with watery brown eyes. Spaniel eyes, Braddock suspected.
Mitty looked around. He didn’t seem to want any more witnesses to this than was necessary.
“He can’t pronounce just any words,” he said to Braddock.
“Of course not.” Braddock wished he hadn’t started this. There’d been no reason to dare the old geezer, to humiliate him.
Mitty found a sheet of yellowed paper from the assortment on the table, unfolded it, then put on a pair of half-lens reading glasses and referred to it. Braddock saw that it contained a handwritten list of about twenty words.
“He can’t say all of these yet,” Mitty said, noticing Braddock staring at the list. “They’re Buddy’s old words. There’ll never be another Buddy.”
“Of course not,” Braddock said, feeling smaller than Java. “Start with something easy.”
“Awful,” Mitty said.
“What?”
But Mitty was staring intently at Java, who still had his moist brown eyes fixed on the old man. “Awful!” Mitty suddenly shouted.
Java turned his head, looking away as if embarrassed.